Muffins
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Wilson teaches Wendy and important lesson by using House as an example. No slash. Please read and review.


A/N: Totally random. Another one-shot take off from _Cotton Candy Baby._

No slash. Please read and review.

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_Muffins_

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It was a Tuesday when the first blueberry muffin appeared. House returned to the apartment after dropping Wendy off at school, still in the t-shirt and pants that he had slept in. He would never get up early enough to shower and dress before dropping her off. That would mean he'd have no excuse as to why he would arrive at PPTH around nine, as he'd done for years. That Tuesday morning, as he tossed the keys on the little table nearest the door and yawned, his attention snagged on the muffin sitting on the island in his kitchen. Wilson had already left, though it was early even for him, but House didn't bother questioning why. The muffin, immaculately shaped and golden, held all his attention.

He admired it for a while, before finally retreating to the shower, and when he emerged looking as presentable as he ever did, the muffin was still there, as if waiting for him. He figured he could have coffee at the hospital as he normally did and carried the muffin off with him. He stopped on the stoop, his lanky figure like an uncommon beauty in the morning sunshine. He had never tasted a better blueberry muffin.

The ducklings had no idea why he should be cheerier than usual.

On Wednesday, the second muffin appeared, a spot of light in his office. It sat on his desk in the same fashion the first had sat on his kitchen counter – unassuming, natural, a kind surprise. Typically, he hated surprises, but when he found the second muffin, it made him smile. He didn't savor it as much he had the first one, but he still took his time, finishing it before meeting Wilson in the cafeteria for lunch. The muffin's sweet ghost lingered in his mouth even as he ate his Reuben and Wilson's chips.

On Thursday afternoon, as he hobbled into the empty conference room to pick up a few things before going home, he noticed the third muffin. It sat centered on the ducklings' table, the surface blueberries peeking at him like a shy, new friend. He ate it more slowly than he had the second one, leading Wilson to ride the elevator alone as he did so.

Friday passed with the solving of his latest case and he made it all the way home without any sign of the familiar pastry. Perhaps the odd trend was over, he thought. But as he limped into the living room, he found a new one waiting for him on the coffee table. The TV was on, but Wilson and Wendy were out of sight. He sat into Wilson's couch, which would always be his even if he didn't sleep on it anymore, and picked the muffin apart.

When he woke up around eleven on Saturday, his sleepy blues were first greeted with a hazy gold perched on his nightstand. He smiled into his pillow because he knew no one was watching. He could smell that sweetness that should've clashed with his personality but instead offered him a small moment of comfort. He lay there for several minutes, breathing it in. He could faintly hear Wendy's cartoons. He looked at the muffin again, this time seeing it clearly, and he admired it for the first time. He didn't leave any crumbs in his wake, and that was unusual.

By the time Saturday drew to a close and Wendy was put to bed, House thought that surely the muffin parade was over. Five was enough, a comfortable number. He watched late night TV quietly, Wilson having fallen asleep on the other end of the couch. He remembered his mother suddenly; she had made the best blueberry muffins for him when he had been about eight years old. She had always liked them more than cookies. He grinned, hearing her voice saying that blueberries reminded her of his eyes.

Sunday morning, he woke up on the couch alone. Wilson and Wendy were nowhere to be found, but he did find the dining table set for three. Two plates were already empty, the glasses clouded where orange juice had been. A third plate waited for him, a muffin resting there, and he thought it should be painted. He let himself be undoubtedly out of character and sat down at the table, pouring himself orange juice from the pitcher that had been left on the table for him. He didn't turn on the TV or the stereo. He didn't retrieve the paper Wilson had brought in and left in the kitchen. He sat with his back to all distractions, drank his juice and ate his muffin. He felt a simple pleasure during the rest of the day, and when Wilson came home with Wendy, House was gone with his bike, riding through scenic New Jersey with no destination and no relevant concern. Wilson and Wendy grinned together at the sight of the third empty plate on the table.

"Do you think he enjoyed them?" asked Wilson.

"Yeah," his six-year-old chirped. "Did I do a good job?"

"A great job. Now you know what's probably the greatest secret to cooking."

She looked up at her father with curious eyes, and he glanced down at her.

"Anything made with love tastes better."


End file.
